


Nothing Gets Done Today

by Swapder



Series: Swapder’s Don’t Starve Short Stories [5]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AKA I left the real reasons I felt like this out so others could relate more, Anyway Wilson runs into a tree at some point, Depression, HaHa How stupid and trivial of me, It was something so small and unnoticeable by others, I’ve noticed people like to read stuff like this sooo..., Suicide contemplation, This is a vent from me apologies, Unspoken Main Issue, Wilson doesn’t actually get named in this fic but it’s him, executive disfunction, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swapder/pseuds/Swapder
Summary: There was so much more that happened during it, so much more. Why was this little thing what he remembered? Why did it hurt him so much?
Relationships: No Relationships
Series: Swapder’s Don’t Starve Short Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630900
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Nothing Gets Done Today

He knew it was a dream. His eyes burned with pain when he opened them and saw the sky. Exhaustion ripped at his skull though he just woke up. There was a certain dead quality about him when he forced himself out of his covers to stand.Stumbling, he headed off to the closest thing to a mirror— a frog pond nearby. It was early enough that the frogs had yet to swim up.

He stared at his reflection for a moment. It was the same as yesterday, and the day before that. It almost always was, other than the fuzz of a beard when winter came.

A heavy sigh of breath left his lips. He hadn’t even realise he was holding it. The frown pulling at him let up and he felt a little better with a confirmation. His legs swung to sit him down at the pond’s edge. He wished it was winter instead of the middle of spring, certain he would feel better then. The nervousness and desire to sob wasn’t gone just yet, but he forced the emotions down until he bottled them up so well that he hardly could remember he felt anything at all.

The memory of the dream flickered at the rim of his mind, teasing a fake but once real possibility. Only the most mundane part of it stood out. Most of the dream was typical, odd things he couldn’t at all remember.

If only those were what he remembered.

Perhaps he should go trap rabbits today, or maybe try his luck with the beefalo. That would be a much more taxing task, rather than whatever plan he had before hand. Instead of what he couldn’t remember, though he was sure he wrote it down, he could do whatever else! As long as it was mind numbing enough. He’d sworn up and down to himself that eventually those clockworks nearby would be cleared away. 

After all, he had a touchstone activated somewhere. He could do anything. Who cared if he died or what he thought— none of it was important anyway! When was it ever? Never, of which he was quite certain.

A painful slap on the side of his cheek wrenched all his thoughts away. He was reminded that he was still very much sitting by a frog pond. Whatever. He stood up. He turned from the pond, snatching up what fell from his pockets and ran away from the chasing frogs. He didn’t want to deal with it, he didn’t want to ever. He wanted to lay down. He wanted to never get up, never leave the comfort of a woven beefalo blanket. With bird feather stuffed tacky pillows, he could pretend he was on a bed. Spend all day making more pillows, or maybe even just unravel the silk keeping every piddly thing together, what did it matter—?

A tree. Where did this tree come from? He wasn’t sure. A brief worry whether he broke a tooth or his nose came to mind. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t seen it and now his face and chest hurt. Sweet science, he wondered if the sun was always that low.

He had wasted the day away with silly contemplations and theoretical activities, and now he‘d done nothing at all. How so very typical of him! He could almost hear a familiar voice reprimanding him. He could no longer remember who it once belonged to, it was from before this place.

So he left. There was no trouble finding his camp, he’d been in this particular world long enough. The sun slipped past dusk and was settling down for night. His hands fumbled through his storage chests and with wood he set light his fire pit. The world fell dark. He was still tired. Maybe tomorrow he could get through the day and not have a repeat of today, or yesterday, or ereyesterday... Or what had been the past entire week. Or the week before that— he settled himself under his blankets with the tacky pillow under his head. The fire was now big enough to last the short night. 

He was relieved. Finally resting in bed, his eyes and head hurting in protest of wakefulness. And yet, sleep didn’t take him. His eyes hurt a little more and he could feel the telltale of tears threatening him. 

He knew it was a dream, but the part most mundane to others pricked at him. The bottle inside him cracked but no drop of salty water fell from him.


End file.
